


postmortem

by Ethereally



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dehumanization, During Timeskip (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Eventual Happy Ending, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, Nobody Actually Dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:28:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26278663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ethereally/pseuds/Ethereally
Summary: The bells toll for Prince Dimitri's death. His fellow Lions grieve.Or: the Blue Lions mourn Dimitri's passing during the timeskip.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Blue Lions Students
Comments: 19
Kudos: 70





	postmortem

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sumaru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sumaru/gifts).



His friend died in Duscur.

A monster wears Dimitri’s skin like a cloak. The boar locks eyes with Felix from across the classroom, and Dimitri’s kindly half-smile stabs him through the gut. Felix averts his gaze and fidgets with the hem of his shirt. Dimitri’s bumbling veneer and loquacious speech mask nothing. Not when Felix has seen the knife behind his smile, the bloodlust in his eyes, and how Dimitri’s raucous, maniacal laughter spilled across the battlefield in West Faerghus. 

He recognizes the beast when it emerges in Remire. Dimitri’s mask breaks more with every lance movement, every cut of a silver blade. Wisps of the hissing, snarling monster spill through the cracks, sprawling through the village. Felix tightens his sword’s grip, humming one of Annette’s stupid songs to block out Dimitri’s screams. The thought _Your friend is dead_ keeps piercing through the ditty. Felix pushes it away. 

There’s nothing Felix can do to bring Dimitri back during the Battle of Garreg Mach. He watches, haunted, as Dimitri tears through the battlefield. Felix can only chase after him terror-stricken. He parries Imperial soldiers’ strikes, wrenching them off Dimitri’s charging form. 

Felix’s friend is long dead, and no longer worth saving. The boar is. 

His prince is executed in Fhirdiad. Felix didn’t think he’d grieve Dimitri. He was wrong.

*

Ashe used to believe in fairy tales.

He’d seen magic in Prince Dimitri when they first met, and then in tragedy. Dimitri had knocked on Ashe’s door, offering him companionship after they’d killed Lord Lonato. His new friend was a warm glow in Ashe’s sea of guilt, a reminder of why he practiced lance drills every morning. Felix could wail all he wanted, but Ashe knew the truth. Dimitri was a sweet soul, a mere deconstruction of a fairytale prince. One day Ashe would serve him. 

Ashe wasn’t naive; he’d known Dimitri was struggling. He’d seen Dimitri snarling for blood at Remire Village. Even then, Dimitri felt like a tragic hero with inner demons he had to overcome. Ashe meekly offered his help. Dimitri swatted him away. The next thing he knew, his prince was ripping the Empire army to shreds at the Battle of Garreg Mach. 

There’s still good in Dimitri, and Ashe wanted to draw it back out. But they were all whisked home after the battle. A messenger arrives at House Gaspard’s door a few weeks later.

Dimitri has been executed for the crime of regicide. Bile springs to Ashe’s throat. 

“It can’t be,” Ashe mutters. “T- there’s no way.” 

Branded a traitor? Killed the regent? This isn’t the Dimitri he knows. Dimitri’s voice was shaking when they’d parted, and his eyes were bloodshot with rage. But he’d never attacked a friend, not once, not ever, even in his most frenzied haze. 

The messenger shakes his head, restating the plain truth. Dimitri is a villain. 

Dimitri is dead. 

Ashe drops to the floor in a crumpled heap, lifeless as he’d left Lonato on the fields of Magdred. 

There’s no space in this world for happy endings.

*

“The Goddess is kind. The Goddess is benevolent. The Goddess forgives.”

Mercedes chants the mantra like a dirge, clasping her hands so tightly she fears her bones might break. She’s called to the Goddess three times a day since Dimitri’s death. Morning, noon and night, she prays for his forgiveness, till her knees are sore and her thighs are shaking. 

She recalls his earnest tone when he’d asked her to teach him how to sew, the clumsy skipped stitches in his tapestries. They paint a picture so dissonant from the one the Kingdom spreads: violent, murderous, more animal than man. Mercedes gnashes her teeth in frustration. 

Dimitri must have been hurting for months before he lashed out, brimming with rage that he couldn’t express. Mercedes has seen this before, seen how anger can consume the best of men. Surely the Goddess would forgive him if the Kingdom wouldn’t. And if She won’t, Mercedes will. She gets up from her knees. 

Her adoptive father awaits her at the dinner table. 

Baron Martritz isn’t known for great conversation. Meals tend to be silent affairs. She peppers the quiet with “this is delicious” and “how are you”, seasons it with the occasional question about his day. Faerghus is preparing for war, he says. The Goddess is kind, she responds. The Goddess will take care of them, she mutters, a half-truth. 

The Goddess hears so many prayers a day. She can’t possibly grant every one. 

“I have some news for you,” her father says. Mercedes blinks back as he leans in closer. 

“This doesn’t leave the table,” he murmurs, lowering his voice, “Prince Dimitri might be alive. Your friend’s body was never found.” 

Mercedes’ lips part in shock. Perhaps the Goddess is listening after all.

*

Sylvain doesn’t believe the rumors. Dimitri’s a crumpled heap of rotting flesh, buried under six feet of snow and dirt and falsehoods.

Margrave Gautier won’t deploy men to hunt for the royal corpse. Cornelia’s sinister gaze sweeps through Fhirdiad, words coated with her poison-stained sneer; the nation is subservient to her crushing heel. Opposing her would be high treason. Sylvain’s father is no fool. For once, Sylvain’s certain his old man made the best decision. 

It doesn’t stop Sylvain from slipping from Castle Gautier two years later. He rides for five days and five nights in the blistering cold, treading the long, winding path till he meets Felix in Conans. A skeleton crew in Fraldarius teal stands steadfast behind him; Ingrid flies to them on her pegasus moments later. 

Sylvain greets his old friends with a wink. Their hair is dull and matted, and dark circles frame their eyes, but he’s never been happier to be in their company. Ingrid dismounts her pegasus, and Sylvain pulls them into a tight, grateful hug. 

“Ready?” he asks. The two of them nod back. Ingrid squeezes his hand, and a flash of guilt bursts through Sylvain, quick and searing like a stray Bolganone spell. 

Sylvain doesn’t believe the rumors, but his friends do. Hope ignites the fire within them. He’ll set himself ablaze for their smiles.

*

Ingrid’s hair, out of its usual braid, cascades in long waves down her back.

She runs a brush through the unkempt locks. Ingrid would get dirt and soil all over it as a child, and her mother would painstakingly wash and brush it after. Annette braided accessories into it in the Academy. Dorothea weaved elderflowers into Ingrid’s hair during the Garland Moon, petting golden locks, singing _Ingrid, Ingrid, my Ingrid_. Swan songs from a distant time, dreams from a distant memory, long gone. 

Ingrid hasn’t trimmed her hair since Glenn passed. She bites her lip, straining to tug the comb through split ends. They’ve been on the hunt for Dimitri for months, and her father would be horrified if he knew how long she hasn’t showered. He’d fold his arms, cross his brow, and click his tongue with disapproval. 

“How will you find a husband like this?” 

In another life, Glenn might have run his scar-lined hands through her tresses. He might have told her she was beautiful, called her his love, his wife. Tears spring to Ingrid’s eyes. Crests and engagements seem trite when there’s barely a Kingdom to fight for. Trivial matters like hair just get in the way. 

Glenn died for his country, for honor, for Dimitri. Two of these three things are shattered. The last one hangs on slim, shaken hope. 

Ingrid takes a deep breath. She reaches for her knife. 

She holds it to the nape of her neck, and slices her locks off in a jagged, messy chunk.

*

“Don’t go to the reunion,” Baron Dominic snarls. His words pierce like a knife. “Cornelia knows you went to school with Dimitri. One misstep, and she’ll have you slaughtered for treason. Just like him.”

Annette’s fists clench so tightly her nails dig into her flesh. Felix and Ingrid write to her under pen names, recounting their search for Dimitri, imploring her to join; she rejects their offers politely. She sifts through politics and paperwork, helping her uncle with a pliant laugh and easy smile. She’s not like her friends. Annette answers to the Baron, and she has to be good. 

Never mind how her stomach churns with anxiety. Never mind how Annette’s crushed by helplessness when she stares out her window at night. Felix, Ingrid and Sylvain are fighting for justice in the sprawling expanse beyond her, and all Annette does is sit at home, ply her uncle, and wait for her story to start. 

Annette’s sick of this interlude. She nods back. But she’ll comply no longer.

She begins to squirrel her belongings into a tiny bag. She adds a few items to it every night, a dress, a shoe, a sock: slowly, so her uncle won’t notice. When she’s done packing she slings it across her back, and swallows to quell her nerves. Annette wraps a length of rope around her bedpost. She throws her window open. The air is warm and humid in the dark summer night. 

They say Dimitri’s dead. Annette doesn’t have to be. She will go to the reunion, and she will see her friends. She flings the rope outside her window and climbs down, slipping into the darkness where Ingrid’s pegasus awaits.

*

Dimitri isn’t dead. Dedue made sure of it five years ago in Fhirdiad.

Ashe had taught Dedue how to pick locks in the Academy. Dedue’s fingers were scarred and clumsy, a far cry from Ashe’s nimble limbs, but he managed to bust Dimitri’s cell door open with a hairpin and some grease. The bodies of slain Kingdom guards lined the hallway behind him. Dedue’s only regret was that their blood stained his axe. Dimitri had been unstable for months, but he was still lucid enough for remorse; his gaze drifted towards the corpses, then to Dedue. Finally, Dimitri spoke.

“You... You came for me.”

Dedue nodded. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?” He swung the door open and stepped into Dimitri’s cell. Chains bound his friend’s wrists to a pillar, shackling him like a beast. If Dimitri couldn’t break them, there was no chance Dedue could. The thundering sound of enemy footsteps grew closer and closer. Dedue narrowed his eyes. 

He raised his axe, crashing its blade through the metal links. They snapped. 

Relief washed through Dedue, unraveling the knots of tension in his chest and stomach. “Come on,” he urged, beckoning towards Dimitri. Dedue tossed Dimitri a spare lance that he’d pilfered. “We don’t have much time.” 

The Duscur resistance army was footsteps away, waiting. Yet Dedue knew that there was a chance he might not survive this: that he might die for his friend. Dimitri would live, though, despite his sunken cheeks and the hollow stare in his eyes. 

His prince was dead, but his friend would live, and that made all the difference.

*

Faint light pierces through the veil of mist, enveloping Garreg Mach Monastery in a halo of warmth. Dimitri squints through the daybreak. The monastery is within his grasp.

His inner voice struggles to be heard through the haze of screeching ghosts, spectres enveloping him in a dark embrace. Their cries for revenge overwhelm almost any lucid thoughts he might have had. But a faint sound cuts through the clutter, whispering words of hope into his ear-- it’s enough to awaken a spark within him. 

There’s a small part of Dimitri that looks forward to seeing his friends again. 

Dedue died for him five years ago, footsteps away from a cold cell in Fhirdiad. There’s been enough blood shed in Dimitri’s name. Dimitri grits his teeth, marching towards the sunrise. He’ll have his vengeance soon. For now, he’s got a promise to keep. 

The rightful king of Faerghus is alive; Dimitri's a far cry from the spirits that haunt him. He’s had enough of dying for people. It’s time to live for them instead.

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [this tweet](https://twitter.com/deerlore/status/1295411187883159557?s=20), which i didn't realize was inspired by this [fanart](https://twitter.com/spearmintaii/status/1295404355978371072?s=20). 
> 
> like in canon, dimitri thinks dedue is dead: i want to make it very clear that dedue is very much alive and will be joining the lions later.
> 
> thanks dima for reading this over! find me on twitter at @gautired, and feel free to [retweet](https://twitter.com/gautired/status/1301724120988569606) this fic if you liked it.


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